


Care to Accompany Me?

by orphan_account



Series: Chamber Music [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, M/M, Music AU, String!Lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides that the violin/viola duet music repertoire is pitifully small, and decides the best choice is to learn a new instrument. But putting the spotlight on John doesn't go exactly as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care to Accompany Me?

**Author's Note:**

> The IMSLP is a website that hosts public domain sheet music.
> 
> Again, no beta or britpicking; all faults my own.

After a brief struggle with the front door and Tesco bags, John walks into 221B to find it deserted. He checks his phone, figuring that if Sherlock has bothered to tell him where he’s at, it would be by text.   
There’s nothing there, so John decides to ask. Where are you?  
The reply is nearly immediate: Back soon.   
John nods his head firmly and sets to finding space for groceries amongst chemicals and dubious ‘experiments’.   
Shopping put away, John makes himself a cup of tea and settles down in his armchair with the newspaper to enjoy some time to himself before his whirlwind of a flatmate and boyfriend returns.   
Just as he gets comfortable, there is a heavy knock at the door, and Mrs Hudson calls up from downstairs. “Sherlock? John? There’s a delivery man here!”  
With an exasperated sigh, John folds up his newspaper. “Yes, coming, Mrs Hudson,” he says, annoyed, but of course not at Mrs Hudson.   
He comes downstairs to find an imposing, muscular man with overly hairy forearms holding a clipboard. “Delivery for Mister ‘Olmes?”  
“Yeah, he’s not in right now. What’s all this?”  
“Oh, observe, John!” Sherlock exclaims breathlessly, running up from apparently nowhere. “The truck clearly says Davy’s Piano Shop on the side!”  
“You’ve bought a piano?” John asks incredulously.  
“Of course not, John! Mycroft bought it, and had it delivered to us.”   
John rolls his eyes. “Where are we going to put a bloody piano, Sherlock?”  
“Gentlemen! Where’s this piano goin'?”  
“Sorry, yes, second floor. Should fit up the stairs; I’ve measured.” Turning to John, Sherlock explains, “It’s an upright, so it’ll fit in the front room.”  
“An up—Sherlock, you can’t even play the piano. What’s all this about?”  
Smoothing his features, Sherlock looks at John with his kindest ‘I’ll only explain because you’re an idiot’ face. “It strikes me that there are very few violin/viola duet pieces that are worth playing. That being said, I figured I could learn some piano so we could play a wider repertoire of music together. Can’t believe that I didn’t think of this before, really.”  
“You’re going to learn piano just so we can play more duets?” John is actually quite surprised. “Why, Sherlock Holmes, that’s downright romantic of you.”  
“I was hoping we might try a different era, but romantic will do, if it’s what you really want.”  
John gapes. “Did you actually just make a joke?”  
“Is it so unthinkable?” Sherlock says, and ducks his head down for a quick, wet kiss to his flatmate’s lips.   
An hour later, the piano sits next to the window, books and papers having been shoved aside to make space for it. Sherlock stands with his hands on his hips, clearly satisfied. With a dramatic sweep, he seats himself on the bench and pulls off the dust cover.  
His fingers wiggle with excitement, and he stares at his new piano like a body at a crime scene.   
John stifles a laugh, and rests his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Are you trying to deduce the piano?” He drops a kiss into the detective’s hair.   
“In a way, I suppose. I understand theoretically how the piano works, and obviously I’m an accomplished musician, I just have to find how to put my knowledge into practice. Don’t want to sound like a five year old,” he grouses.   
John smirks. “I doubt you sounded like a five year old when you were a five year old.” He gives Sherlock a squeeze and steps back. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be upstairs.”  
Sherlock grunts and places a piece of music on the piano. Several weeks ago, when the piano idea had first come to him, he had stolen the piano score from John’s music collection. It was a piece he had often heard John playing quietly in his room, so he thought it would be a good piece to start with.  
Sentiment, or something.  
He scrutinizes the music for a moment and then decides which keys he’ll press. He shifts a little to get more comfortable on the wooden bench, and presses the keys.   
A jarring almost-chord jangles out of the piano. Sherlock stares at his hands in disbelief, still confident that he was correct.   
He reviews the notes on the page again, and adjusts down a half note in the left hand and tries again.  
Much better.   
He pushes confidently through the rhythm of the repeated chord, and stalls when a note changes. He leans forward, squinting at the bass clef line and adjusts his hand accordingly. This time he tries the new chord more tentatively, but is rewarded with a pleasant result.   
Sherlock continues muddling his way through the first section of the piece, a staccato succession of slightly changing chords. He wishes he could hear John playing the melody, because this piano score is beyond boring.   
Finally, the right hand part takes up the melody line while the viola solo swirls into smooth sixteenth note slurs, but even then, Sherlock finds the melody line tedious on the piano. Pushing keys down isn’t nearly as challenging as perfecting the pitch and tone of the violin.   
As the piano part again becomes little more than background frills, as Sherlock sees it, he crashes down on as many keys as he can hit and swats the music clean off the ledge.   
He crosses his arms and pouts like a small child.  
John jogs down from his bedroom, freshly showered and buttoning the cuffs to his red button down shirt. “That’s really quite good for your first go, Sherlock. Course, when have you ever been less than amazing at something, I wonder.”   
Sherlock furrows his brow. “This duet is absolute rubbish. Halvorsen is a pathetic composer if this is the best he can do.”  
“You’re playing an accompaniment, Sherlock. It’s not supposed to be flashy and interesting. It’s to support the soloist,” John reminds him. “You play solo pieces all the time on your violin. This time you’re just on the other end.”  
“The other end is foul. This was a terrible idea.”  
John arches a brow at his flatmate as he shrugs his jacket on. “I’m not having any of that. You basically stole a piano from your brother; the least you can do is learn to play it properly. Find some other music, Sherlock. Something meant for the piano. I think you’ll like it much better.”  
Suddenly, Sherlock realizes that John’s grabbing his keys and heading for the door. “Where are you going?” he asks.  
“Just out,” John replies carefully.  
Sherlock jumps up from the piano bench, nearly knocking it over. “Out with whom?” He asks. He tries to look accusing but the boyish fear in his eyes betrays his expression.   
With a deep sigh, John puts his keys back on the table and walks over to Sherlock, kissing him tenderly. The taller man’s arms wrap around John tightly, rubbing over his back. After a moment, John pulls away, but Sherlock continues his embrace.   
They hold each other’s gaze, and John speaks up. “I’m meeting Molly for drinks.”  
Slightly dazed from the kiss, Sherlock jerks his head back in confusion. “Wh—Molly? Whatever for?”  
“For a drink, Sherlock. She wanted to talk. It’s nothing you need to worry about,” John assures him. “I won’t be out late.”  
As John starts to pull away, Sherlock slides his hands down to catch John’s own, and draws him back in for another kiss. Sherlock hopes John can sense the reluctance in letting John leave.  
“Sherlock, seriously, what’s gotten into you? I’ll be back before you know it. Hell, you may even forget that I’m gone,” John jokes weakly.   
Sherlock shakes his head, dark curls bouncing. “It’s nothing. It’s fine. I’ll see you later.”  
John looks at him warily, but gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and finally leaves.  
Sherlock flops down on the sofa and fires up his laptop.   
#  
After a frustrating search for interesting piano parts on the IMSLP, Sherlock settles for printing off a Glinka viola sonata score. He props the pages on the piano and begins to tap out the notes.   
The piano score is a full eighteen pages long, and by the time John comes back, Sherlock can (mostly) play through it.   
It’s only about nine o’clock when John returns, a sleepy smile on his face as he hangs his jacket and drops his keys on his desk.   
“You know, John, this piano business really is quite easy.”  
John’s smile broadens. “Well,” he says with a chuckle, “you’ve certainly got the hands for it, and the brain.”   
“I’ve prepared a piece for us to play together,” Sherlock informs his tipsy partner.   
“Please tell me you’re not expecting me to run through it with you tonight,” John says half-heartedly.   
“Of course I was,” Sherlock responds.  
“Can we not? I’m a bit tired and my vision’s not in a good place for sight reading just now, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock flops into his arm chair, demonstrating his disappointment.   
John perches on the arm rest and lays a warm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Tomorrow morning, I promise.”  
“Fine,” Sherlock grumbles. John drops a kiss in Sherlock’s hair and goes upstairs to change into his pyjamas.   
As he’s brushing his teeth, Sherlock appears in the doorway. John spits a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink before turning to his flatmate. “Did you need something? I’m nearly finished in here.”  
Sherlock leans against the frame, arms crossed, mouth quirking slightly. He steps into the bathroom and stands behind John, wrapping his arms around the doctor’s waist. “Carry on,” he instructs.   
John rolls his eyes but finishes brushing his teeth. Sherlock follows him to his room, refusing to release his grip, awkwardly shuffling behind John.  
“I take it you’ll be joining me tonight, then?”  
Sherlock says nothing, just peels back the duvet and flops into John’s bed. He pulls back the other side of the bed for John and looks expectantly.   
John falls into bed, too, and Sherlock shimmies up behind him, wrapping his long, gangly arms around John’s torso once more.   
John shifts slightly to get comfortable, and Sherlock begins to hum softly. John thinks he might recognize the tune, but he can’t quite place it, and he drifts to sleep against his detective’s softly buzzing chest.  
#   
It’s six forty seven in the morning when Sherlock decides that John has slept for long enough. The detective himself has been awake for nearly two hours, but he very politely let John sleep.   
Until now.  
“John?” he asks, prodding his boyfriend in the shoulder. “John, wake up. It’s morning. I want to rehearse. We haven’t had a case in days and I’m bored. You know what happens when I get bored.”  
John grunts. “Are you trying to guilt me out of bed?”  
“Depends. Did it work?”  
With a resigned sigh, John throws the blankets off of him and rolls into a sitting position. “It seems so,” he says with a smirk and a shake of his head.  
“Excellent. I’ve already put the kettle on so you can have your requisite tea and then we can get straight to the rehearsing. I’ll need a few minutes to warm up, anyway.”  
John grunts again but follows Sherlock, albeit much more slowly, down the stairs.   
He drops a teabag into a mug and pours the boiling water over the leaves. He plops down at the kitchen table, rubbing sleep from his eyes.  
Sherlock is already settling himself at the piano, fussing with music and the bench. He looks over to John expectantly, like a child making sure their parents are watching before they demonstrate some newfound skill.   
John looks a bit bewildered. He takes a sip of his tea and curses quietly as he burns his tongue.   
Sherlock takes that as his cue to begin playing, and despite several stumbles, wrong notes, and more than one pause to find a new chord, his playing is really quite astonishing for it being his second day on the instrument.   
John takes another tentative sip, and this time his tea actually is the good kind of piping hot, and he takes a long gulp of it. “And you’re sure you’ve never played piano before?” he asks Sherlock.  
“Mycroft had one, but I rarely touched the thing. I’ve seen countless people play, and as I told you, I’ve done my research. It’s only slightly more challenging than I anticipated.”  
Sherlock begins fiddling with keys, and replays the passages he stumbled over earlier. John finishes his tea, and grabs a piece of toast, too while Sherlock practices.  
Hasty breakfast completed, John wipes the crumbs off his pyjamas and pushes back from the table. “I’ll just go get my viola then, shall I?”  
Sherlock ignores him as he squints at the sheet music, but John knows what Sherlock wants, so a few moments later, he returns to the sitting room with his viola and begins unpacking.  
Sherlock finally seems to notice when John fits his shoulder rest to the lower bout, and plucks all four strings to see how out of tune it’s gotten. Not too bad.  
Sherlock breaks off in the middle of a phrase. “You’ll need to tune down to an A440 since I’m guessing you usually use an A442?”  
“I have no idea, just play an A and I’ll match it.”  
John plays a few runs to warm his fingers up, and Sherlock props the Glinka viola part on John’s music stand.   
He eyes it suspiciously, but secretly wants to thank Sherlock for choosing a piece with a fairly easy viola part. Most of his fast notes are ornamental turns, and nothing looks too screeching high.   
John notes that Sherlock’s piano score looks significantly more complicated, and he’s not entirely sure how this is going to go.   
“We’re not really taking this at the full allegro, are we?”  
“No of course not. Certainly not for a first read-through. I’m still figuring out the best fingerings for all these sixteenth note runs.”  
“Alright. So, looks like you start? Whatever tempo you like, I suppose.”  
Sherlock nods and smoothes his features into placid concentration. He sets off at a moderate speed, and John internalizes the rhythm and prepares to join Sherlock.   
Their first run through goes surprisingly well; both musicians make several mistakes, but they make it to the end and only had to regroup once.   
John scribbles in some fingerings and bowings to help his next attempt, and Sherlock crashes through a few measures of runs several (dozen) times.   
When John has put his pencil down, Sherlock asks, “Again?”  
John shrugs, and Sherlock begins again from the top.   
John enters on a pickup. One and two and thr—  
Sherlock’s phone rings. He immediately stops playing because it’s Lestrade with a case.   
#  
The case turns out to be a rather simple robbery, and Sherlock has it solved in less than two days.   
The detective and his doctor find themselves once again facing the music at Sherlock’s behest.   
Both men more confident in their own parts, they begin to discuss phrasing and musicality, and it becomes abundantly clear that Sherlock needs a reminder of dynamics.  
“That was the loudest mezzo-forte I’ve ever heard,” John chides. “I’m at fortissimo there, but you’ve got t o stay under me. It’s not a contest, Sherlock.”   
They play the passage again, and Sherlock stays quiet where he should, crescendos dramatically—  
And doesn’t decrescendo at all.   
“Sherlock! Honestly, I’ve got the same phrase. You know how to play proper dynamics, stop banging about and do it right.”  
“Well you’re pushing the tempo! I feel like you’re dragging me along! This whole passage is a mess. You need to listen to my part better.”  
John stills. He tucks his viola under his arm, puts his bow on the stand. “No.”  
Sherlock gapes, mouthing words that don’t come.  
“I don’t think you’re listening to my part at all. I know you’re used to being in charge, but this time, you’re accompanying me. So that means if I rush a bit, you pick up the pace, too. If we’re missing a handoff, you need to match me.   
Let me lead, Sherlock. Trust me, for once. I promise: I know what I’m doing.”  
“I always trust you,” Sherlock says quietly.   
“Then show me,” John replies in kind.   
Sherlock looks down at his hands, stretches his fingers, places them over the piano keys.   
He pulls them away from the keyboard, and turns back to John. “I’m a loner and a leader. It doesn’t mean I’m not willing to follow, I just... I don’t know how.”  
John’s face softens, and he puts his viola down on the sofa.   
He holds out his hand. “Come with me.”  
Sherlock observes John’s face and understands. He gets up from the bench and lets John pull him to Sherlock’s bedroom.   
John pulls Sherlock down for a deep kiss, hands stroking down the taller man’s back and sides, caressing his face, his neck.   
Sherlock stands a bit awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do. He understands that John wants to lead him, so he doesn’t do what he usually would. He decides to put his hands on John’s waist, fingers twitching with the urge to lift John’s jumper and vest up and over his shoulders, caress his bare skin with the back of Sherlock’s fingers, letting them dip down below John’s waistband.   
John begins to lead them to the bed, slowly unbuttoning Sherlock’s cobalt silk shirt now. He has Sherlock’s full attention right now, and John plans on taking advantage of that fact. The violist removes Sherlock’s belt, but leaves his trousers on, for now.   
With a nudge, John sends Sherlock tumbling backwards onto the bed. Sherlock props himself on his elbows and shimmies up the bed, and waits for John to join him.   
John crawls up the impossible length of Sherlock’s body, kissing a path from navel to nape until he is on all fours, straddling Sherlock. He pauses to remove his jumper and vest now, and Sherlock’s hands fly up to find the now exposed flesh.   
John chuckles, but allows Sherlock’s hands to roam as his own fingers begin their exploration. John leans down to graze his teeth over Sherlock’s neck, and his fingers find Sherlock’s nipples. He runs his hands over Sherlock’s chest and a faint moan escapes Sherlock’s lips.   
Wanting more contact, Sherlock tries to wrap his leg around John’s waist to pull him closer. John removes Sherlock’s leg, and continues his previous attentions to Sherlock’s neck and chest.   
He traces fingertips up along Sherlock’s pale torso, following the line of his body up to his impossible cheekbones. John weaves his fingers back into Sherlock’s curls, humming with pleasure as he kisses Sherlock fiercely, tasting his lover’s lips and tongue.   
Still caging Sherlock on his hands and knees, John holds Sherlock’s hips down when he arches up, searching for more contact, more of anything.   
“Ah ah ah, let me lead,” John chides. But by now, he’s aching for it too, so he shimmies down Sherlock’s slim body, sliding his violinist’s knees apart and finally giving them both the contact they crave.  
Sherlock moans as John settles his weight on his body. The taller man clutches at John, kissing and licking anywhere he can reach. John scolds him with a playful bite to his collarbone as he runs his hands over Sherlock’s nipples once more.   
When Sherlock’s body relaxes into John’s, his head falling back onto the pillow, the violist grins: Finally, Sherlock has stopped trying to take over. He is still responsive, but he lets John control the pace now. John rewards him grinding their hips together. He adds some lube and takes them both in hand, stroking firmly until they both shudder through a breathless orgasm.   
When they’ve recovered, Sherlock props himself up on an elbow and pulls John towards him for a sweet kiss. “That was remarkable,” he says in a low voice.  
“I told you to trust me,” John grins. “So do you think you can figure out how to accompany me a little better now?”  
Sherlock groans.  
“Come on, Sherlock. Tell me you’ve learned something from this.”  
“Well apparently I like when you boss me about in the bedroom,” he smirks.  
“Sherlock...” John growls.   
His lover quiets him with a kiss. “Relax, John. I think I’ve learned my lesson.”  
“Good.”  
“Besides, if I need a little reminder lesson later on, I’m quite sure you’d be amenable,” Sherlock rumbles, and kisses John again.  
“Oh that’s it,” John quips, and rolls back on top of Sherlock, taking control of the kiss.  
Sherlock laughs, but gives over to John once more. “That’s more like it.”


End file.
